Tosgaire
by haroldleotangco
Summary: It's been three years. Everybody is trying to move on. But everybody is also not willing to forget. Son, Best friend, and Hero.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Ro-ràdh

"Hey, buddy," greeted the man. There was a bite in the air, the cool twilight breeze blowing. He could feel it even through his thick jacket. Shivering, he continued, "It's been quiet around here lately, huh?"

_No answer._

He didn't really expect any. "Sorry I haven't visited you more often. Vet school really is a bitch." He laughed. "At least I'm getting credits working for Deaton now."

The wind whistled, rustling the fallen dead leaves on the ground, making them dance and twirl. It was getting pretty cold now, welcoming the oncoming winter.

The man sat down, not caring about the wet packed dirt. He almost immediately regretted the decision, but sitting down definitely beat standing in the cold. At least he could make himself smaller, shield himself better from the wind. And that was what he did. He curled up, encircling his legs with his arms and burying his face between his knees.

"I got into an accident the other day. Wrecked my bike pretty bad."

There wasn't really a point to this particular line of one-sided conversation but he carried on.

"My mom really freaked out. Swore that if I ever bought another one she would ground me for life." He chuckled. "Which is funny. Since I moved out eight months ago."

That was one of the major decisions he'd had made. Since he was going to a community college, he'd figured he could still stay at home. But he suddenly got the urge to move out. Not that he was getting tired of living with his mother or anything. He just wanted to be by himself. Taste a little freedom. See how things would turn out. Since they'd already planned on sh—

He didn't let himself finish the thought. Instead, he continued talking. "We're having our annual bonfire-eat-and-drink-until-you-puke celebration tonight. They finally finished renovating—more like rebuilding—the _house_.

"Everyone is comin'…" he stopped. "Well, at least everyone that could come."

He let out a small grin. But it couldn't really mask the tightness in his chest. Or the misting in his eyes. And try a he might, he couldn't really blame the cold anymore for the shivers that was wracking his body. He finally let it loose.

Tears freely fell. He could feel the beginning of an asthma attack. But he knew it was just the pent up emotions making it hard to breathe. This happened every year. For three years now. He couldn't help it. And he knew no one would really comment on it.

"Scott!"

He heard someone yell.

He got up, wiped the tears from his eyes and cheeks and looked one last time at the marble in front of him. "I promise I'll visit more."

He dusted his jeans and walked back, but turned around to look one more time. Even after all this time, he still couldn't make himself look at the name.

…_Stilinski_

_Son, Best friend, and Hero_

_1995-2012_


	2. Chapter 2

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Breathe in._

_Pull the trigger._

_Breathe out._

_Done._

That was his mantra.

He could feel the recoil rock his body, his right shoulder jarring, causing his elbows to scratch painfully on the uneven surface of the roof. He still wasn't used to this. And he didn't think he ever would. Not that getting used to it was a bad thing. _Whatever gets you through the night, _he thought to himself.

He could hear the wind gently whistling. Twenty stories high, he expected there to be more of a gust than this mild breeze.

The night was dark, only illuminated by the street light below, and the full moon. There wasn't a single cloud in sight.

"Pack up," came the teeny, static-y voice from his right ear. "You don't want to get sniffed by the local pack."

"Copy."

He took one last look at the scope, seeing the figure sprawled down on the pavement, crimson stain blossoming from his head. That _thing_ . . . killed 6 people just this week. 6 people who had families waiting for them. 6 innocent lives.

There would be no need for a clean-up crew. He knew that the body would be taken care of.

_I'm just the executioner._

He quickly disassembled his rifle, placing it in a non-descript duffle bag. There was a slight twinge on his right shoulder, remnants of the recoil. He thought of taking the time to stretch out a bit. Crouching, not moving in place for the past twenty minutes, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, had been really uncomfortable, now that he was finally vertical. But he could already hear the howl from the distance. A howl signalling that there was a trespasser in their territory.

_Right. Pack up._

He grabbed his black hoodie, putting it on top of his black long-sleeved turtle neck sweater. The outfit was completed with black cargo pants and black boots. Black _really_ wasn't his favourite colour. But he also couldn't wear red. That would make him stick out like a sore thumb with a ten foot splinter stuck on the nail. This job requires subtlety, and the ability to blend in. Not exactly his personality, but hey, the pay was good.

Climbing down the fire escape seemed to be harder than going up. He just wanted to get back to his temporary bed and crash. Maybe for a few days. But no, he still needed to get to his debriefing. Which would take at least another couple of hours.

Once he was finally down on the ground, he hiked up his duffle over his left shoulder—right still bothering him a bit—and walked out of the back alley. He didn't need to be careful. No one was exactly out this time night, especially in this part of the neighborhood.

His car was only two blocks away, parked in front of a twenty-four-hour convenience store. He wasn't gonna risk his car being jacked while on the job. He was many things. Spastic. Slightly OC. Couldn't focus on one thing at a time even if his life depended on it. But he wasn't stupid. _Idiot, maybe._ But definitely not stupid.

Stupidity could easily get him killed in this world.

Stupidly thinking that things would go smoothly, for example.

And stupidly not realizing someone had been following him till it was too late.

Right. No one would be out this late. At least, no _human_.

He stopped. Took a deep breath, looked up, brown eyes closing, and sprinted.

He wasn't going to stupidly get caught, and possibly stupidly die tonight. He still had a date with his stupidly uncomfortable bed.

The dreams didn't really bother Derek Hale anymore. He had three years to get used to them.

But said dreams were the reason why he was waking—he glanced at his clock—up at four in the afternoon. He hadn't slept until six that morning. He knew that the dreams would be especially strong today. He just hadn't been prepared for them, 'is all.

He rubbed his face with both hands, sighing, feeling the scrape of his beard. He really needed to shave. Maybe acting like a functioning member of society would take his mind off of thing for a bit.

"_Do it now!"_

He jumped. Startled. He looked around, trying to find the source, but there was none. He was alone in the house. Nobody would arrive for at least a few more hours.

"Get a grip, Hale." He chastised himself.

He unceremoniously slipped out of bed—the only furniture in his room—and went out the door, clad only in well-worn sweat pants. Sleep was still clinging to his eyes and tried to blink them away.

_He stood there, hands stretched to his side, blood flowing freely from the large gash on his abdomen, soaking his grey shirt. His eyes implored. They both knew this was their only chance. The calm before the storm._

Derek stopped, opened his eyes. "No. I'm awake."

He gave himself a slap, just for good measure, feeling the sting jumpstart his circulation.

"_Do it. I can't hold him back any longer!"_

He was definitely walking faster now, taking deep breaths. He could feel the claustrophobia settling in. He needed to get out of the house.

_He looked up, staring, focused and desperate. He closed his eyes, lids crinkling from the force. "We both know this is the only way." He opened his eyes again. This time, instead of the hopeless desolation reflecting on them earlier, he looked . . . peaceful. Cathartic, even. One side of his mouth tugged into a grin. Chest rising and puffing out, then exhaling. "We're at a stalemate. This is your sixteenth move, King."_

He burst through the front door just as everything start to catch fire in his mind.


End file.
